Wednesday, April 19, 2006

A blogger had some thought-provoking comments about monogamous gay relationships. I know it works for some, but I'm not sure that it works for every gay couple. I’m not even sure that it works for most gay couples. And I’m not sure it should be held up as an ideal.

If gay liberation of the 60's and 70's was about anything, it was about gays defining our own terms, our own relationships and our own sex-positive sexuality. It was about breaking the rules (THINK ABOUT IT - homosex, in this culture, was and still is to some degree, civil disobedience and a political act - see John Rechy, The Sexual Outlaw, Rushes; Rosa VonPraunheim, Army of Lovers). It was about shaking free from the oppressors.

Many gay couples rejected the heterosexual model with its exclusivity, possessiveness and insecurities and instead experimented with open relationships, group relationships, different forms of intimacy, friendship, sexuality, promiscuity and loving.

The issues of trust, communication, jealousy, betrayal, compassion, “cheating,” intimacy, sexual compatibility, love and caring were integral to these experiments. Many men worked through these various issues to arrive at mature, satisfying, respectful, loving and often, unconventional relationships. These gay men, lovers, ex-lovers, casual sex partners, and friends were pioneers, often forming caring communities. (David Nimmons, The Soul Beneath the Skin) It was a time of discovery, joy, friendship and bonding - And yes, it was a time of excess.

The AIDS crisis was (is) a many-edged sword: not only did it decimate the population of gay men in America and elsewhere, but it also effectively put an end to the experiment of gay liberation; it brought many men reluctantly “out of the closet” and inspired a host of care-givers, political organizers, protesters and legislators. It has left a new generation of gays resenting what they missed (the “free-love” generation) but lacking real knowledge of their gay history.

AIDS has created a subculture of despair in which drugs and sex are not experienced as liberating but as desperate and addictive. The fear of disease has, for some, led to self-destructive behavior - which is at once both an act of defiance and an attempt to defuse and neutralize the danger by a ritual baptism of “total submersion”. Promiscuous sex is no longer “civil disobedience” but more a compulsion or superstition. (Fortunately, for some it is still just fun).

For others, the fear of disease has caused a retreat into respectability. Homes in the suburbs, biological or adopted children, RVs, BMW’s, monogamy, civil unions and even marriage. Those of us with a foot in this camp should be vigilant because, despite the trappings of respectability, HOMOSEX WILL NEVER BE RESPECTABLE.

As long as religious fundamentalists of any kind have influence, as long as heterosexism is part of the fabric of society, as long as breeders believe in their own moral superiority, HOMOSEX WILL NEVER BE RESPECTABLE. No matter what you do or don’t do. No matter the trappings of respectability.

The big push for same-gender marriage has pre-empted whatever remained of the experiment of gay liberation, if AIDS hadn’t done so already. Marriage (and/or civil union) is a capitulation to heterosexism. Will it create a new class of respectability or just a smaller class of people “living in sin”? (As far as the morally superior are concerned, all homosexual couples, civil unioned, married or not are living in sin, always, forvever, PERIOD.) The eventual "main-streaming" of same gender marriage will serve to devalue the gay lib experiment as irrelevant, if not evil, and make conformity the only relevant value.

Is the intentional message conveyed by the advocacy for same gender marriage that those in a monogamous, legally “married” relationship will be less likely to get or spread those nasty “gay” diseases. This may be what is most likely to convince the hetero-power-elite to allow same-gender marriage after all: if those promiscuous gay boys and AIDS are to be stopped, we’ll make them get married and keep them in line (by imposing the monogamous structure of legal marriage). This is especially disturbing in light of years of gay activists promoting healthy sexuality and safe expression.

I think promoting same-gender marriage, civil unions and even monogamy should be done mindfully. I respect those who may choose marriage or civil union as a structure for their relationship or for their financial arrangements, or for other reasons; but we must continue to affirm and celebrate the many alternative choices that gays, couples, triads, groups, bi-sexuals, transpersons and others make to live with integrity and honesty.

Can we truly say that we celebrate diversity? Or are we just advocating another brand of conformity? Legal marriage has its benefits, for sure: health benefits, financial advantages, social acceptance and the respect of (some but not all of) your neighbors; but we must be careful not to paint ourselves into a corner with rainbow colors.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

The first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox is designated as Easter Sunday in the Roman Church. From Palm Sunday through the Easter Vigil was the height of ritual in the Catholic Church, especially when Latin was still the rubric. In more recent years, local parishes have had less than spectacular services.

The distribution of palms, an exotic plant for those of us living in northern climates, and part of the background of the holy land, was a ritual that continued at home with the fashioning of more or less elaborate crosses from the fronds. This was a tradition more ethnic than religious, although the line between Italian and Catholic was certainly never definitive. Sunday morning before dinner was arts and crafts and thirty or forty woven crosses would be fashioned for parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, teachers and friends and palm crosses were even brought to the gravesites of dead relatives. The afternoon was a time to visit grandparents and extended family.

The solemn mass of the Lord’s Supper on Holy Thursday evening was highlighted by the intonation of the “Gloria in Excelsis Deo” during which bells were rung and sometimes the organ and other musical instruments accompanied the Gregorian chant. After the Gloria the bells and organ remained silent and all the chants were a cappella. This abrupt withdrawal of music was dramatic and left the congregation focused intensely on the rituals of the concelebrated mass, the washing of feet and the solemn procession to the candle-lit and flower laden tabernacle where the consecrated wafers of bread were to be kept for Friday’s service.

Good Friday was not at all spectacular but rather solemn and drab with the longest reading from the gospel of the betrayal and execution of Jesus. This was the only day of the year when there was technically no Mass, only communion using the pre-consecrated hosts. Instead of bells, the deadened sound of wooden clappers announced the beginning of communion.

On Holy Saturday evening, it was as if the church couldn’t wait for Easter. The services began with the several long rituals: the blessing of the new fire, the blessing of Easter candle, the blessing of the baptismal water, recitation of several litanies of saints, lighting of candles and much chanting without musical accompaniment. By contrast, the vigil mass officially began with the intonation of the “Gloria in Excelsis Deo” with a return of all the bells and organ music and trumpets and other instruments. This was always an impressive and inspiring moment.

Easter Sunday, especially after they allowed Saturday vigil to count for Sunday, was anti-climatic, a morning service for parishioners in new clothes.

I always considered myself more of a Catholic than merely a “Christian”. People who called themselves Christians had no real roots or traditions, only borrowed and watered-down rituals, borrowed from the Roman church, hardly recognizable and totally out of context. Catholics, on the other hand had almost two thousand years of tradition and scholarship behind them. Every tradition, every ritual, every prayer, and every sacrament had an explanation, a history, a meaning and logic. The accoutrements were elegant as well: beeswax candles, gold chalices, colorful vestments, incense burners, Gregorian Chant, symmetrical processions, impeccable choreography. It was an elegant religion. No wonder so many gay boys were lured to the priesthood. What other profession allowed one to remain unmarried without question and provided a lifetime of job security? All male seminaries and the opportunity to hang around like-minded individuals was a bonus.

Everyone expected me to become a priest. There was an unspoken formula for making that determination that went something like this: (Italian)Boy + (Sensitive) + (Good Student) – (Talk About Girlfriends) – (Sports) = Priest. The irony was that sex was not a part of this equation. The absence of heterosexual interest did not necessarily indicate disgrace. The saving grace of sissy boys was the possibility of joining the asexual priesthood. These priests would carry on the traditions, provide the rest of the community with a communication network to God and the Saints, and be held in high esteem because they were chosen.

Thursday, April 6, 2006

As a child I always wished that there might be someone, somewhere, who could understand me completely. Someone who could see the world through my eyes and senses and being. Someone who could appreciate the nuances of every emotion and the shades of meaning in each experience.

He awakened depressed and angry from a night of sexdreams. Grabbing some porno mags from the nightstand, he indulged his compulsive desire to masturbate. At some level of consciousness he knew this would relieve the anxiety of starting a new day and temporarily ward off the obsessive thoughts of sex – sex that seemed always just out of reach – real sex with real men, not just the glossy bodies of guys who really did it with each other in the porno books.

Once, it had been guilt or fear of being like those who were despised above all others that kept him on the fringes like a movie-goer, safe from all the consequences of the actors, yet able to experience vicariously the lives they lived. Now it was just fear – ostensibly fear of the disease that stalked like an invisible vapor of death in the midst of pleasure – that kept him isolated. But if the truth be known – and he was aware of the truth – it was the same old fear now transformed into faces, names, stories he would never know: now it was the fear that he could never become enough like those who were despised above all others.

Orgasm came as a relief, not only for the sexual tension that had built up during the night, but also for the confusion that seemed to accumulate along with it. He could not remember a day since becoming aware of his sexuality at the age of twelve or thirteen that he did not think of sex or of his being “different” (he had never heard the word “homosexual” until perhaps the age of fifteen or sixteen). The fact was that all of this colored his experience of himself, of events, of people, of life in general, in a way that he could only describe as confusing. His experience vis-à-vis the rest of the world always seemed dissonant, incongruous.

This morning he remembered the times, countless times, when he was in his early teens, that orgasm brought this kind of relief. The hours he would obsess with thoughts of jerking-off, of how it would be a mortal sin, of how no one else his age seemed troubled by the propensity for such evil, of how this “temptation” would not leave him alone: only by masturbating would he be freed from this tortuous game of tug-of-war. Before long he learned to do it when the desire arose; to do it without thinking too much; to avoid the struggle entirely; to do it now and pay later.

The price of this decision was the Saturday ritual cleansing in the dark confessional in the presence of a stern and faceless priest; a priest who came to know this unrepentant boy and once refused to grant the absolution, exacting a price unexpected. “Unforgivable” sank into the fabric of his identity along with “queer” and “faggot” and “fairy” and “sissy”. Was this the same priest who told him to wrap rosary beads around his hands when he went to bed? The question faded, unanswered, as he matter-of-factly cleaned up with a wad of Kleenex. Guilt was no longer a factor in the morning ritual, but the memories that entered his consciousness this morning accentuated his depression and anger.

If he could tell his story, he would recount feelings more than events in time and place; for in his mind, feelings and emotions give the only significance to otherwise ordinary occurrences. His story would be in no way extraordinary. Others might tell similar stories but with considerably more interesting detail. Even his feelings are no different than those experienced by others but he imagines that he feels more intensely, more acutely and considers himself cursed by this propensity.

This morning his depression and anger are vaguely annoying, like unwelcome houseguests one becomes accustomed to and learns to tolerate for what seems like eternity. He knows not to stare too long in the mirror while shaving this morning lest he see the ugliness show through. Others have on occasion told him that he is handsome, but he finds this absurd: his aquiline nose, narrow face, a weak jaw and small bone structure, while not unattractive to some, are not masculine or sexy by his definition. There have been times when, on close examination in the morning mirror, he and his mirror image have exchanged insults, “You ugly, ugly, ugly son of a bitch.” This morning’s toilet will be brief.

He is rarely startled by coincidence. In fact, he expects that things and events will come together in ways that trigger memories, if not to make life interesting. Like this morning, now on the way to work, the combination of crisp autumn air and Stevie Wonder singing I Just Called To Say I Love You on the car radio causes a lump to form in his throat and his eyes to become moist with grief. The particular mixture of stimuli is too powerful, even now, after nearly a year since the relationship ended, finally, for good. There is still an empty space left by that ending and he feels the time-deadened pain less often and for briefer moments, such as these, when Stevie and autumn conspire to remind him.

The grief feels more real than the depression that deadens his emotions. It frightens him when he feels nothing – nothing but dead inside, afraid it will all turn sour and hateful. The driver in front of him is going much too slow, “Fucking asshole”, his anger focused on a safe target. He veers into the passing lane, hating his anger. He is convinced he does not tell his story because he would have to apologize for his self-indulgent pity.

There is a long-ago memory that sticks in his throat this morning, connected in some strange way to the feeling aroused earlier by the song on the radio. It is a story he never told. A story he has imbued over the years with a meaning that goes beyond its apparent significance. It has become the key to all the other stories in his life.

It took place when he was fourteen, during the summer when his mother was hospitalized for a lung removal. It was not her first prolonged stay in a hospital. She had suffered from tuberculosis since his infancy and had spent years at a time in the sanitarium.

This particular summer he was experiencing a degree of independence as well as a significant amount of responsibility. When he was not off swimming or riding his bike, he was expected to take care of his younger brother and do chores around the house. And it was the summer of his sexual awakening. It was during this summer that his fascination with the male body began to define itself as an indisputable fact. He remembers seeing for the first time with distinctly sexual interest, a naked black man in the dressing room at the pool. His interest in swimming and beaches grew proportionately that summer.

He was invited by an aunt to spend a few days with his cousins at their cottage on the lake. It was here that his story begins:

My aunt Antoinette was a dark, earthy woman with two young boys: James, who was twelve and Nicholas, who was seven or eight. She was not easily upset by the antics of growing boys and her displeasure, when she showed it, was short-lived. She seemed to prefer a laisez-faire approach, with tacit approval of boyish behavior. She had taken firmly to heart the belief that “boys will be boys” and that mothers should not interfere too drastically in this mystery. She gave her affections freely, with hugs and kisses. It was obvious that she delighted in such shows of affection with her own children and seemed to have enough left for a visiting nephew.

Although I could not articulate it at the time, I sensed once again the unfairness of life’s circumstances. My own mother was hesitant with her displays of affection and seemed to keep her children at a distance. She felt that the disease that ravaged her lungs was too communicable to risk the health of her children by being physically close. But she kept her fear and her sadness secret. Thus her hugs always seemed brief and uninviting, and although she would allow us to peck her cheek at bedtime while she held her breath, her body language defined the limits of intimacy.

In my aunt’s home I experienced, as if for the first time, a profound difference in the quality and quantity of love that I and others might enjoy depending on the fact of our birth into a particular family. Then of course, there was James.

James was a dark-skinned boy with straight, almost black hair and dark eyes. Although James’ had a mostly Italian heritage, there was some French/Indian blood on his father’s side. I was intrigued by the romance of James’ being part Indian.

(He no longer has a clear image of James: it has been blended with the images of a half dozen men with whom he has had sex or been in love, or with whom he has had an infatuation – not to mention the countless others: nameless strangers in passing cars, or fashion models or movie stars.)

James, though younger than myself, was more confident, unhampered by self-consciousness and thoughts of “what might happen if”. For a few brief days I began to share this possibility, delighting in the opportunity to walk everywhere barefooted and not to worry about getting the sheets soiled with dirty feet.

James and I would buy Lickum-Aide at the corner store when we went for milk and bread and Aunt Antoinette’s cigarettes. We would pump water from the well outside the cottage. We would swim and dive from the wooden raft in the lake for hours at a time and eat sandwiches for lunch at the cottage. In the evening we would wash with soap by the lake and then dive in to rinse off.

For me, being with James was different than being with anyone else. Being with James began to feel more real than identifying with Spin or Marty or with Joey on the TV series “Fury”, more real than being lost in the book “Old Yeller”. Being with James began to feel like being a part of James’ family, of being just like James, of being James. Being with James was a feeling that had no word to describe it.

Reality has a way of intruding, despite efforts to ignore or deny it. And so it happened one day that James challenged me to dive from the raft to the bottom of the lake and, as proof, to retrieve a stone.

James and I dove together on our separate missions. The water was deep but clear and I swam down, the brightness of the surface behind, till the bottom was in sight. The distance under water was difficult to judge – enough so as to cause me to wonder whether I could hold my breath long enough to return to the surface. My confidence shaken by this doubt, I turned to swim back to the safety of the raft. Only seconds later, James bobbed up with a handful of pebbles.

For James it was no big deal – neither that he had produced stones, nor that I had not. He neither bragged nor teased. But for me, it was not so much that I had failed in this contest, but that now there was an indisputable difference between James and I – a difference that could not be breached, not even if I dove again and again and brought up every stone from the bottom of the whole lake. I was aware of the separateness suddenly, painfully but with that momentary delay, like the realization that one has been cut, only after noticing the blood. I quickly buried the awareness in my gut.

When, a few days later, I was at home, alone under the maple tree in the backyard, I experienced the separation and the pain acutely. My tears were not those of a child hurt, or teased, or merely disappointed. I sobbed, gasping for breath, from my gut which felt empty in a way I could not describe….

About Me

From New Britain & Bristol, CT now in Cochiti Lake, New Mexico, United States

I am a reluctantly-retired, no-longer self-employed, gay baby boomer who came out relatively late in life due to taking my Catholic upbringing much too seriously. I've been with my loving partner since 1988 and we married on October 25, 2014. We moved from a small house on a few of acres of woods in Connecticut to a small house in Cochiti Lake New Mexico in November 2015. I worked for non-profits and the like so have no retirement plan other than to work as little as possible, enjoy as much as possible and hope for the best, which is not at all practical. I have a rebellious streak but I am not heroic by any means, thus the "reluctant" part of my blog title. Our 100 pound Labrador/Weimaraner "Benni" has taken over our lives since we adopted him as a rescue puppy in 2010. He has his own blog. We like the outdoors, traveling and RVing. Oh, I recently published a book (September 2014), a memoir to be exact, which I hope will be at least somewhat entertaining. You can buy "Did You Ever See A Horse Go By?" Amazon, soft cover, PDF, ebook and Kindle (I apologize for the price as I had no control over that).